Cat and Mouse
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A sequel to The Friends Zone. Something (or is it someone?) is keeping House and Cuddy from hooking up. Lots of OT3 action in this.


Cat and Mouse

House quickly limped toward Cuddy as she was making her way to her office.

"I sure hope you managed to get some alone time last night," he said suggestively.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Where do you like to do it: In the shower? In the bed? Or my preferred fantasy: While you're taking a long luxurious bubble bath?"

She suddenly realized what he was driving at.

"House," she hissed. "I didn't masturbate last night."

"Who said anything about MASTURBATION?" he shouted. "That is an inappropriate work topic, Dr. Cuddy!"

He was 12.

She grabbed the collar of his shirt, practically dragged him into her office. She closed the door behind them.

"Alone at last," he said, with a grin.

"What happened to the gentleman who _wasn't_ bragging about his conquests to Wilson yesterday?"

"He has a fever and the only prescription is more Cuddy," House said leaning toward her. "And I'm pretty sure you feel the same way."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said, backing up.

"I'm not flattering myself. You practically mounted me in your bedroom last night."

"I didn't mount you!"

"The video tape I made says otherwise. . ." he said. Then he took note of her appalled face. "The one I made in my mind, that is."

She shook her head.

"Before Wilson so rudely interrupted us," House continued, "I distinctly remember your hand on my belt buckle."

"It was not!"

Actually, her mind was a bit of a blur on the specifics of last night. She remembered feeling sort of. . .overcome.

"Ask me if _I_ masturbated when I got home last night," House said.

"Pretty sure I know the answer to that," Cuddy said.

"Nope. Did it in the car before I left."

"Eww," Cuddy said. "And remind me never to drive in your car again."

"Not _my_ car," House said. "But you might politely suggest to Wilson that he get his car detailed."

"Very funny," she said.

House's eyes were twinkling. He loved this game.

"I'm serious though," he said. "I hate unfinished business. And based on the speed with which you routinely clear out your in box, _you_ hate unfinished business."

"That wasn't business last night. It was a . . . mistake. An ill-advised, drunken mistake."

"Alcohol merely gives us an excuse to the do the things we already wanted to do."

"Then remind me never to get drunk with you again," Cuddy said.

"We could lock the door," he said softly, stepping toward her again. "Take care of that unfinished business right now."

"House, we're not having sex. And we're definitely not having sex in my office. Ever. So wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face."

"I was there last night," he said. "I know what I felt. You can't deprive yourself forever, Cuddy."

######

That night, there was a knock at Cuddy's door.

Wilson answered it.

"It's ironic that ever since you kicked me out of your apartment, you can't seem to stay away from me," Wilson said.

House peered in.

"What are you guys doing? Am I interrupting a Barbra Streisand marathon? I always wondered: Could Papa really hear her?"

"If you must know, we're playing chess," Wilson said.

"What's that a euphemism for?" House asked, scratching his head.

"For playing chess," Wilson said. And he cocked his head toward the kitchen table, where—yes—Cuddy was sitting cross-legged, dressed in gray yoga pants and a pleasingly form-fitting navy tee-shirt, staring at a chess board.

House walked in, hovered over her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she said back, distractedly. She was concentrating on the board.

"Make yourself at home, House," Wilson said. "Not that you ever needed anyone's permission."

House brandished his flask. "I assumed it was BYOBourbon again," he said. "Anyone wanna join me?"

"I'll pass," Wilson said, sitting across from Cuddy. "My head is still throbbing from last night."

"Ditto," Cuddy said, still focusing on the board.

"Suit yourselves. More for me then." And he took a swig.

It was Wilson's turn. He moved his pawn. House smirked a bit, said nothing.

Then it was Cuddy's move. She went to move her rook. House coughed loudly.

She looked up at him. He whistled innocently.

She went to move a pawn.

He coughed loudly again. She stopped, her hand frozen on the pawn.

"Hey!" Wilson said. "No helping her."

"Not helping. I must've caught a bug or something." He cleared his throat.

Cuddy went to move her bishop. Looked at House. He nodded.

She made the move.

Wilson frowned at the board. Moved his pawn.

Cuddy's eyes lit up. She moved her bishop again.

"Checkmate!" she said gleefully.

"A pyrrhic victory at best," Wilson said. "When you've got Bobby Fischer, asshole diagnostician, here giving you pointers."

"I would've gotten around to moving that bishop eventually," Cuddy sniffed.

Then she got up from the table.

"I have to go make a phone call, boys. Try to behave yourselves while I'm gone."

They watched her walk into the bedroom.

"I want to write a personal letter of thanks to the man who invented yoga pants," House said.

"You're a dick," Wilson said.

"Like you weren't just looking at her ass."

"Not about that. About helping her win."

"I assessed the board. She was going to beat you anyway. I merely expedited the process."

"Huh," Wilson said. Then he slid the black pieces across the chess board at House.

"I'm a glutton for punishment," he said. "Round two?"

They set up the board.

Wilson made the first move. Then House made his move.

Then Wilson countered.

House sighed, rolled his eyes a bit.

"I need to go talk to Cuddy," he said. "My next three moves are e4, c5 and Nf3."

"But you don't even know what my moves are going to be!" Wilson sputtered.

"Yeah, I actually do," House said, getting up from the table.

He left Wilson alone, contemplating the futility of the game, and walked into Cuddy's bedroom. She was nowhere to be found. He heard the sound of water running in the master bathroom.

He opened the door, let himself in.

Cuddy was at the sink, washing her hands.

"Are you out of your mind?" she said. "I could've been on the toilet. Or naked!"

"It was a risk I was willing to take," he said.

"If you need to pee, I have two other bathrooms."

"I don't need to pee. I need to be alone with you," he said.

He stepped toward her.

"We're alone alright," she said, ironically. She turned to face him. Her back was up against the sink.

He stepped toward her again. Now they were close enough to kiss.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said. His legs were scissoring hers.

He was crowding her. Making it hard to think.

"I want to put my hands all over you," he said softly in her ear. His mouth was inches from her neck, but he didn't kiss her.

"Do you want me to put my hands all over you?" he whispered. Now his lips were hovering near hers, not quite kissing her. He was breathing on her.

She closed her eyes. He smelled of leather and bourbon and the promise of sex.

"Yes," she finally admitted.

He lifted her chin, kissed her on the mouth. A sensuous kiss. "Then let's get out of here," he said.

"What? Now?" she said, snapping out of it. "Don't you think that would be a little suspicious? 'Oh hey, Wilson: House and I have a late night patient consult. Don't wait up!'"

"Makes sense to me," House said, smiling.

He leaned in, kissed her again. This time, his teeth lightly grazed her lower lip.

Fuck, he was sexy.

"We both work in a hospital. Tell him it's an emergency," he said.

"The kind of emergency that gets the Dean of Medicine out of her house at 10 o clock gets talked about the next day," she said. "Wilson will know we lied."

"Okay," House said, taking a finger and tracing a line from the hollow of her throat to the collar of her tee-shirt, which he tugged down, until he was lightly fingering her cleavage. "Tomorrow night then."

"Okay," she said, gulping a bit.

"It's a date."

"Oh wait! Shit." Once again, he had her in such a state that she wasn't thinking straight. "Tomorrow night is Wilson's night to cook dinner. He's making coq au vin."

"So what? Blow him off."

"I can't. It's our little ritual. His world is upside down. He's craving some routine right now. "

She took in his disappointed face.

"How about Thursday?" she said proudly, with a dirty little smile. "Your place? 8 o clock?"

"On one condition," he said. "Can you put me in a medically induced coma and wake me up when it's Thursday at 8 p.m? Cause I'm not sure I can wait that long."

"You'll live," she said, patting his shoulder. "And now get out there and play chess with your best friend before he gets more suspicious than he already is."

#####

The next day, House stopped by Cuddy's office.

"You know what my new nickname is?" he said.

"What?" she said, playing along.

"Job," he said—the Biblical sufferer. "Cause I'm _that _patient."

She shook her head.

"Good things come to those who wait," she said.

"I'm counting on it," he replied.

Later, House joined Wilson for lunch.

"What's going on between you and Cuddy?" Wilson said.

"What do you mean?" House said, innocently.

"You keep disappearing with her for long stretches of time. If I didn't know better, I'd say you two were rekindling your romance."

House shrugged.

"Trust me, it's the opposite. She's always giving me grief about something. Last night, she was nagging me about submitting my team's vacation slips on time."

"And you _swear_ that's it?" Wilson said, skeptically.

"What else?"

Wilson frowned.

"You wouldn't lie to me AGAIN, would you?"

"Never pal."

"Alright, if you say so."

Content that this awkward conversation was over, House began dousing Wilson's fries in ketchup.

"As you well know, I hate ketchup!" Wilson said.

"And as you well know," House said, grabbing a fry. "I love ketchup."

Wilson shook his head.

"I'm still bitter about you helping Cuddy beat me at chess, by the way," he said. "She's been bragging about it all day."

House smiled to himself.

"I didn't even know Cuddy played chess, to be honest," he admitted.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "It's something she and her father did together. It was their special thing."

"How do you even know that?" House said.

"How do I know?" Wilson said. "Because I broke into her room and read her diary, of course." He shot House an irritated look. "How do you think I know? She told me."

"What," House said, genuinely curious. "It just came up? Out of the blue?"

"I guess we were talking about our fathers."

House furrowed his brow.

"Why?"

"Because that's what friends do House. They talk about things. I know it's hard for you to grasp this, but it is possible to relate to a woman on a non-sexual level. . . I think I was talking about my parents and she was talking about hers—and that's when the chess thing came up."

"Huh," House said, absorbing this. "So what else do you two talk about?"

"Why are you so interested all of a sudden?" Wilson said. "We both know that human contact isn't one your specialties."

House shrugged.

"Just making small talk."

"What do Cuddy and I talk about . . ." Wilson mused. "She asks about my day, I ask about hers. We talk about the news, what we've read, what we want for dinner. Normal stuff."

"Jesus. It sounds like you guys are a married couple."

"She's just a good friend House. No need to get jealous."

"Who's jealous?" House said, and shook more ketchup on Wilson's fries out of spite.

The next day, House stopped by Cuddy's office again.

"Ask me why I'm grinning from ear from ear," he said.

"I think I have a hunch," she said.

"Cause it's Thursday. The most magical day of the week."

Cuddy looked at her watch. "See you in six hours, Romeo."

"Dreams really do come true!"

#####

Making an appointment to have sex was a first, for Cuddy at least, and she stood outside House's apartment feeling anxious.

But the minute he opened the door, her worries slipped away.

There was jazz music playing on the stereo and the apartment smelled vaguely of eucalyptus and sandalwood and smoke. He had lit candles. The light was appealingly dim. He was wearing her favorite pink Oxford shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

He handed her a glass of Prosecco. (He remembered. Her heart melted a little bit.)

"No need to seduce me, House. I'm a sure thing," she said, with a laugh.

They clinked glasses.

"Come here," he said, putting down her glass and leading her into the bedroom.

He took off her jacket, folded it neatly. Began to unbutton her shirt. He was being patient, meticulous. Then, as if he had behaved long enough, he finally dove for her.

Her heart began to flutter.

In truth, everything about Gregory House turned her on: His beautiful, sad face; his lean physique; his long, graceful hands; his truly impressive cock. (As if the guy wasn't full of himself enough, of course, he had to be hung like a horse, too. She sometimes thought the limp was the only thing keeping House from being completely insufferable. But then again, over the years, she had found herself strangely turned on by the limp, too.)

But the thing that was turning Cuddy on the most about House, right now, as he eagerly kissed and licked and fondled every inch of her body—was the obvious power she had over him.

At work, she may have officially been the boss, but he was the one more often in control. Here, in the bedroom, he seemed almost completely at her mercy. There was something nearly worshipful in the way he drank her in, the way his hands lovingly caressed her flesh. His pure, unadulterated _want _was hot as hell.

This thought inspired her as she unbuckled his pants, took his enormous girth in her mouth. He seemed shocked, but instantly grateful. She watched as he leaned back, and then his mouth went slack, and his eyes closed, and his breathing got heavy. The power she felt was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

She took him in her mouth further. He moaned a bit, and his breathing grew staggered.

"Yesssss," he managed to choke out. "Yessssss."

He was vibrating a bit. She felt the energy coursing off his body.

And then. . .her cell phone rang.

She sensed his body tense for a second, thinking perhaps she'd answer it.

When she ignored the ring, he relaxed again.

She began to quicken her pace. He was bucking the tiniest bit underneath her. He was getting close.

And then the damn phone rang again.

Shit. They both knew it could be a hospital emergency—she had to answer it.

She let him slide out of her mouth. His dick was wet with her saliva.

"Nooooooo!" he said, in agony.

"Hold that thought," she said.

She took the phone. He watched her warily, still hard as a rock. . .still hopeful.

She listened on the other end, said a few words in response and then hung up.

"That was Wilson," she said. "He's locked out."

"He can use the spare key under the cupid statue," House offered.

She didn't bother to ask how he even knew there _was_ a spare key under the cupid statue.

"He apparently never put it back when he got a copy of the key made."

"Sucks for him," he said, lying back. His anatomy was trying to fight against his own mounting disappointment—and failing. He was beginning to lose a little firmness.

"The thing is, it's freezing outside and he doesn't have a coat."

"_Really_ sucks for him."

"He's hovering in the shed for warmth."

"Sounds like he's found a great place to stay safe," House said.

"House, you know I've got to go home and let him in."

"Cuddy, I'm begging you. You can't leave me like this. I'll be fast. I promise."

He looked truly pathetic.

She got up, buttoned her shirt, found her shoes in the dark.

"If it's any consolation, I'm as frustrated as you are," she said, kissing him on the lips.

"I strongly doubt that," he said.

#####

It was like some sort of conspiracy against them. For a week, House and Cuddy tried—and failed—to have sex.

Once, she was sitting on his lap, completely naked, when Wilson called, despondent: Julie had filed for divorce papers.

"He needs me," Cuddy had said, standing up.

"I need you!" House said.

"You should've heard him, House. He was practically in tears."

And she left.

The next time, it was House's phone that rang. . .and rang. . .and rang.

He put it on vibrate, went back to lavishing attention on Cuddy's breasts.

Now _her_ phone rang.

"Follow my lead and put it on vibrate," House said, his hand gripping her waist, his tongue circling her nipple. She glanced at the phone. Wilson. Reluctantly, she put it on vibrate.

"The phone's not the only thing vibrating," House said cheerfully.

But even on vibrate, she could hear the phone ringing and ringing through her purse.

She couldn't concentrate.

"It must be an emergency," she said, sitting up.  
She picked up the phone, just as House's face was making its way between her legs.

"What? Yes. . .Okay. . .I'll be right there," House heard her say.

"Don't tell me," he said, emerging from under the covers. "Wilson interruptus."

"I'm sorry," she said. "His car broke down. He's at the mechanic. He needs a ride."

"He can call a cab!"

"He apparently forgot his wallet."

"Then he deserves to walk."

"He's going through a hard time, House. He needs a little support."

House sighed, scratched his head.

"Even Job didn't have _this_ much patience," he said.

#####

At lunch the next day, Wilson said to House.

"What's wrong pal? You look a little tense."

"I'm fine," House said. But he put his head in his hands.

"You've been on edge all week," Wilson said. "You've seemed—what's the word I'm looking for?—frustrated. Unfulfilled. Dare I say, blocked?"

House popped open an eye.

"Wait a second," he said, looking up from his hands. "_You_?"

"Why on earth would I lock myself out without a coat?" Wilson said, smiling a bit.

"And Julie? She didn't file for divorce?"

"No, that part is true. But I was hardly broken up about it."

"And the mechanic?"

"Routine maintenance. And since when have you known me to not carry my wallet?"

"You cockblocking piece of shit."

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

"But why?"

"To teach you a lesson, House. Don't lie to my face."

"I was protecting Cuddy's virtue!"

"You were sneaking around and lying."

House squinted at him: And idea had formed.

"It's not the lying that bothers you! It's the fact that I'm with Cuddy. Admit it, you wish it was your cock in a position to be blocked. You're jealous!"

"Why would I be jealous? Every time I called, Cuddy came running. Leaving you in a …very uncomfortable state."

"You little bitch," House said. He was almost impressed.

"I'm saving you from yourself. Sleeping with the boss is a very bad idea."

"All you've done is extend the foreplay, my friend. The sex part is inevitable."

"I still have a few more tricks up my sleeve."

"And what if I tell Cuddy?"

"That I know you two are running around like a couple of horny teenagers trying to find a place to have sex? I'm pretty sure she'd assume you were the one who told me."

House folded his arms.

"You're diabolical," he said.

"I've learned from the best," Wilson said.

And they stared at each other.

#######

Cuddy was supposed to drive Wilson home that night at 6:30.

When he got to her office, however, the door was closed. Her assistant, Anita, was packing some stuff in a briefcase, getting ready to leave for the day.

"Cuddy in there?" Wilson asked. It was unusual for the door to be closed like that.

Anita glanced at the door.

"Yeah," she said. She looked puzzled. "Come to think of it. . . Dr. House was in there with her. But that was over an hour ago."

"I see. . ." Wilson said.

He went to open the door. Of course, it was locked.

"Does Dr. Cuddy ever lock her door?" Wilson said.

"Only if she really doesn't want to be disturbed," Anita said. "You want me to call her?"

Wilson shook his head, chuckled to himself.

"No," he said, in defeat. "I'll wait."

And he sat in one of the waiting chairs.

As if on cue, the door sprung open and House and Cuddy emerged.

They were almost a comic portrait of a couple that had just had sex: Cuddy's hair was completely awry and she was missing an earring. House's shirt was haphazardly buttoned and he had visible scratch marks on his chest. They were both red-faced.

"Are you guys okay?" Anita said, staring at them.

"There was a . . ." Cuddy started.

"Mouse," House finished.

"Yeah, a mouse," Cuddy said.

"And we tried to catch it. Things got out of hand."

"Totally out of hand," Cuddy said.

"Let me guess," Wilson said. "The mouse managed to escape."

"Mice are crafty," House said with a smile. "They always find their way out of the trap in the end."

EPILOGUE

That night, another knock on Cuddy's door.

Wilson answered it. Saw House.

"It's for you," he said to Cuddy, ironically.

Cuddy blushed a bit, stepped out onto the front steps.

"What are you doing here?" she said. "You know I can't get away tonight. It's Wilson's night to cook. He's making paella."

"I know," House said. Then he smiled shyly. "I just wanted to say hi."

"Hi," she said, biting her lip.

"You look pretty."

"So do you."They beamed at each other.

House kind of sniffed in the general direction of the kitchen.

"If I'd known Wilson was such a great cook, maybe I wouldn't kicked him out so hastily."

"Your loss is my gain," Cuddy chuckled.

"Maybe I could. . . join you guys?"

"What? You want to have dinner with me and Wilson?"

"Why not?"

"Wow. There must really be nothing to eat at your apartment."

House looked down at his feet, shrugged.

"Hey Wilson!" Cuddy shouted. "Set an extra place on the table. House is joining us."

"Then he's doing the dishes!" Wilson shouted back.

"Looks like you're joining us for dinner," Cuddy said, taking his hand. "Come on in."

"Wait," House said. He hesitated, as if about to say something rehearsed: "How was your day?"

"I'm pretty sure you know you know how my day was," she said sexily. "It climaxed at around 6:30."

"I meant, uh, besides that. How was the rest of your day?"

"You want to know how my _day_ was?" She peered at him. "You're acting weird, House. Maybe you have low blood sugar. Come inside. . . we'll feed you."

And she opened the door and led him in.

"I understand it was your father who taught you how to play chess," he said, as he followed her into the kitchen.

THE END


End file.
